it's friday, i'm in love
by shadowinthedark13
Summary: She never means to fall in love with Robb Stark, but things rarely happen how Myrcella wants them to.


**Rating/Warnings: M**

**Word Count: **4,584

**Pairing(s):** Myrcella/Robb, Sansa/Willas, Arya/Gendry

**Summary:** She never means to fall in love with Robb Stark, but things rarely happen how Myrcella wants them to.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**Author's Notes: **So this is something I've owed Dicey for a while, and just got around to finishing. I hope you like it girl! The title is taken from the Cure's song "Friday I'm In Love", and the format is based off of 500 Days of Summer. And just a warning, there is sex in this, so if that isn't your thing, don't read. I might eventually be adding more to this series, so keep a look out.

* * *

**(1)**

There used to be a time in Myrcella Baratheon's life where she wanted to go to Yale and get a degree or a doctor in something and be _someone_. Not because she's a Lannister or Baratheon, but because she's Myrcella. Something she could do by herself.

But somewhere between Tommen getting killed and her fight with Joff, those dreams died. The engine in her Jeep, however, did not. So she drove and drove, occasionally calling her uncle Tyrion for a job because she was always shit at finding her own, and somehow, she ended up finding Robb Stark locked in a djinn's basement hooked up to an IV.

It's a split second decision that she saves him. She'd already killed the stupid djinn and had only come down here to find her necklace that he'd stolen three days earlier when she'd found him hiding in the burnt shell of a house just outside Clinton.

And really, she'd never exactly _liked_ Robb Stark. Arya, she loved. Sansa, she could handle. _Robb,_ with his thick arms and his smirk and the fact that he's stolen jobs from her before, she could not stand. But hanging from wrist shackles, all pale and sweaty, murmuring something about _Jeyne_ and _Theon_ she has to save him. At least to rub it in his face later that the pathetic, dainty _Baratheon_ girl saved him.

He barely wakes up when she pulls the IV from him, tearing at the skin angrily when it refused to come out easily, and he's hardly conscious as she drags his heavy ass up the stairs.

There is a fleeting moment where she thinks about just leaving him in his car, because it's parked just down the street, the same ugly green jeep he's always had, but thinks better of it, because with her luck she'll die, and…well Myrcella doesn't hate him that much. So she drags him to her car, only dropping him once, and shoves him in the backseat, wincing when his head hits the other door. "You're fine," she says, but doesn't really know who she's talking to.

* * *

She's on her laptop when Robb finally wakes up.

His hand—the one she _bandaged_ for him, because it was kind of her fault for ripping the IV out of his hand—rises as he drags it down over his face and looks around.

Myrcella watches him slowly come to. How he seems at ease with her hotel room, only to slowly realize that it's not _his_ shitty motel. It's almost like she can hear his heart quicken, his pulse speed up. She can see his muscles tense as he looks around the room, checking for his assailant, a weapon. And when his eyes land on her, they widen comically.

"Cella?" He asks, because he's actually a fourteen year old _idiot._ "What? Where did you come from?"

"Saving you," she tosses her boot-clad feet up onto the table and leans back in her chair, watching him carefully. She's got her knife on her if he tries anything stupid, like leaving without a proper thank you. "The great Robb Stark almost died."

Robb stares at her, like it's the first time he's ever really seen her. And maybe it's the first time he's seen the new her, the one without acne or a fierce longing for a different life. She knows she's beautiful like her mother, and she's _glad_ he knows it too.

"Why were you there?" And suddenly he's standing, tugging on his dirty boots, reaching into his pocket for the cell phone Myrcella saw broken on the floor back at that house. "Were you following me?"

She's maybe a bit offended, but angrier at the fact that he's not grateful or _thanking her._ "No, I was looking for my necklace that the djinn—which I have been hunting for a _week_—had stolen, fuck you very much. I wouldn't have known you were even there if I hadn't been looking for the stupid thing. And I killed the djinn, so you can go on and _leave_."

Is that guilt? She can't really tell, because Robb is not an open book like many people believe. He looks blank, almost. The anger leaving his body, but he's still walking to the door, pulling it open.

"Wait!" She snaps, pulling herself from and chair and darting to the door. She slams it shut, despite the fact that he's stopped trying to leave. "Don't think you can just _leave_ and not say anything. Hasn't your mother taught you _manners?"_

She can see Robb's hand clench at his sides, and Myrcella is shocked at how _stupid_ she is. His mother had died, hadn't she? Torn apart by hell hounds, and brought back somehow, but more as a monster than anything. Lady Stoneheart they called her, right? "Dammit, Robb—"

"No, you're right," he sneers, turning away from her and putting his hand on the knob. "I need to go and find Theon and Jon before they kill each other looking for me. Thanks for saving me."

She doesn't get a chance to say anything as he slams the door shut.

* * *

**(375)**

"You're really bad at this, you know," Myrcella tells him, wincing as his bony knuckles dig into her lower back. "Like, really fucking bad. Horrible, really."

Robb laughs above her, tightening his knees where he straddles her. Myrcella gasps and moves to elbow him, but Robb has her pinned to the bed in seconds, beard brushing against her scarred cheek. It stings a bit, but not enough to stop. The job, however, is enough to make her at least pause. "We're supposed to be researching. Arya sent us here to research."

"You think she and Gendry aren't…doing anything spectacular?"

Myrcella allows herself a laugh and attempts to twist, but Robb's grip holds true, and she's stuck. His forefinger tracing the veins in her wrist. "Mm."

"Don't fall asleep on me," she argues, bucking up against him, trying to dislodge him to no avail. He merely laughs at her, warm breath puffing at her neck.

He's quiet again after that, and his fingers trace the line of her arm, her waist. She doesn't try and move again, because despite her earlier whining, she's actually quite comfortable. It's getting chilly in the room since they'd turned the heat off, and Robb's comforting weight made her feel safe.

It's only when he snores a bit, just a snorting inhale from his nose, that he slips off her a bit, enough to still keep his weight on her, but not enough to be uncomfortable. And…yes. They could go for a nap right now. It's not like her laptop would give her anything on werewolves that they didn't already know.

* * *

**(401)**

The day before the full moon is usually the worst for them. Robb gets irritated, the new moon always making his skin itch and ripple, bones creaking for the upcoming change. Arya is much different, calm and tired and anxious. Gendry doesn't know what to do with himself, so he tends to go out to the garage and throw things around, though Arya can surely hear him.

But Robb, he stays away from everyone, walking into the wood surrounding their home and not coming back out until nightfall, and then he's staring at the moonlight across the gravel driveway, sitting on the front porch. Myrcella's long since stopped sitting outside with him, waiting for him to talk to her. A part of her knows she _should_ be out there, _should_ be with him, but. But this is something he needs to do on his own; something she can't help with, as much as it kills her.

He does come in eventually, a few hours before dawn, slipping into the bed beside her. He doesn't touch her, is always careful during the week of the full moon, though it's only the first night that they lose themselves to the shift, become feral and not entirely human.

This time, however, he is there, tucking himself into her side, burying his face against her neck, skin cool and damp. He clutches around her midsection, almost too tight, but she doesn't tell him to stop.

They hadn't known at the time. When he and Arya had been bitten, they'd been prepared to put a silver bullet in their heads. But then the wolf they'd been fighting had turned back into human, bones in her face bending back, eyes turning a warm honey. And it hadn't been the type of werewolf they were brought up hunting. A new breed, she'd told them, eyes on Robb and Arya, saddened, but her mouth had been thin and her back straight. It was her or them, and she wasn't leaving her pups motherless, she'd told them. And her friend who had bitten both Robb and Arya, snarling something like, _Direwolves, huh? Plain ol' wolves are just as nice, don't ya' think,_ lay dead on the ground at Myrcella's feet, silver bullet in his chest. They'll be faster, stronger, heal quicker.

But not human, Myrcella had filled in the blanks easily, and the bite mark had healed within the night, and Rob's nails lengthened and sharped.

"Gods," he whispers now, broken and fragile, much like she had been after having her face disfigured so horrifically. "I dream that I kill people. Kill—"

"You don't," Myrcella tells him firmly, tugging his hair until he looks up at her, with eyes too old. "You won't kill me. Not me, or Ned," His hand tightens over her midsection, around the baby in her belly, and Myrcella offers him a smile. "You're you, Robb Stark. Now shut up and sleep."

* * *

**(23)**

"Please," she tells him, rolling her head sluggishly to the side, meeting his bloodshot eyes. "Shut the bloody fuck _up_ before I make you."

Robb scoffs, and beside him, Theon Greyjoy lets out a cackle. "Like you could, fuckin' Lannister slut."

"Shut up!" She and Robb snap at the same time, glaring at the man. She glares at Robb too, and adds, "I don't need you protectin' me either, Stark. I can take care of myself just fine."

"I know."

Oh. Myrcella turns away again, tugging at the shackles holding her to the wall. They don't give, no matter how hard she tries to get out of them, and so she is left to think to herself, which isn't all that exciting either.

This was technically her fault. It'd been her phone that had gone off in the warehouse, and since Robb and Theon had been looking around outside (unbeknownst to her, though she'd put it on the fucking circuit, or Tyrion had, so she's not sure why they were there to begin with) they'd all gotten captured. The ghouls—she's about eighty seven percent sure they're ghouls, had already fed off the other human in the cell, a young girl named Talia.

She fucking hates ghouls. Especially when they decide eating _dead people_ isn't enough.

* * *

She must nod off, because it seems like only minutes later when the door is being pulled open, a long scrape across the ground, and the lead ghoul saunters in, wearing a body that looks like Talia's. It makes Myrcella sick, but Robb is the one who speaks up.

"You're a sick _fuck,"_ he yells, pulling against his own shackles. Myrcella sees the blood and raw skin from where he's tugged too hard, and the ghoul's face goes an alarming shade of pink, eyes fluttering shut when she inhales deeply. "Mm, _hunter_ blood. I love it. Now, who's first?"

The silver of a dagger flashed between her fingers, and Myrcella recognizes it as the one her father had given her on his deathbed, a bronze stag craved into the hilt. It makes her furious to see it with the ghoul, and Myrcella lets out a shriek, tugging forward enough that the skin on her wrist tears enough that blood drips down her arm in a sluggish, warm line. "I'll kill you. Take that head off your shoulders," she promises with a snarl in her voice.

And that's when the ghoul smirks, points at Robb, and a long, bright blade tears through the skin of her neck. Mutely, Myrcella watches the body crumple to the floor, and Jon Snow stands at the mouth of the entrance, scowling.

"Stop leavin' me to do all the dirty work, Stark."

* * *

**(98)**

He's pressing a whiskey-soaked cloth to her side and normally she would wince, but Myrcella can hardly feel anything but Joff's hands around her neck, in her shirt, scratching and biting. She can see nothing but the hatred in her eyes, his mouth working around the words. _You are mine._

She's not, though, and Robb had told Joff that before he'd put his knife in him. And they're right, that thing they say. Humans are worse than the monsters, most times. And Joff certainly was. Forget Targaryen madness, this was a new type in and of its own, and it had made her scared, fearful. It made her glad Tommen had never had to deal with it.

"Do you think you're okay to shower?" Robb asks, softer than she's seen him in a while. She's surprised he'd found her. Thankful, but still surprised. She's been missing…been with Joff, for almost a week, and if anyone, she expected her uncle to come for her. Jamie _or_ Renly.

But when Robb had shown up, his sister and her mechanic backing him up with a gun and daggers aimed for Joff, Myrcella had nearly wept, only to realize that, right, he'd taken Sansa too. Taken her from her bed, and then she'd found out his own Hound had called into the cavalry, not for Myrcella, but the Stark girl.

"Yes," she says, blinking up at him, and then away, back at the room behind them. She can hear Arya talking to Sansa quietly, the Hounds hoarse voice. _Little Bird,_ he called Sansa, and the red haired girl had looked at him like he was her hero, like he was some sort of knight in shining armour.

But Myrcella knew just as much as the Hound that Willas Tyrell was who Sansa loved, who she would be going back to, forgetting about this world, hunting, until someone called for information.

Robb isn't leaving, despite putting down the cloth he'd pressed to her side. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," she says automatically. But she's not. She aches for Margaery, Renly, gods her _mother, _but they're not here. Only Robb, who she occasionally fucks when she's feeling lonely. "Thank you. For today. I know you were there for Sansa, but I don't know what I would have done—"

"I was there for you too, Myrcella," his eyebrows draw together, heavy and almost red above his pretty blue eyes. Tully blue. "I came looking for you."

She doesn't know why she cries, but it feels good to do it now.

* * *

**(222)**

He's inside her, thick and warm and his curls brush her forehead as he thrusts forward, fingers dug into the foul smelling comforter they're fucking on.

They'd stolen it from the last motel they stayed at, and Grey Wind usually uses it in the backseat while they drive, but he's gone into the woods, and now it's keeping her from hurting her back against the truck's dirty bed.

Robb shoves into her again, arms shuddering at the side of her head, mouth promising things against her skin, and Myrcella breathes in the scent of him, clutching the smooth skin of his back while his nose runs along her jaw, mouth following with nips and licks. "Gods be good, Myrcella," he hisses against her skin, hand pressing against her clit, rubbing it with each thrust.

She gasps and arches up against him, breasts flush against his chest, and she smiles, stares at him and the stares above them.

* * *

**(118)**

"It's not funny," he snaps, waving the thick cast around in the air, pointing at it as if she can't see it. Myrcella howls with laughter though, falling into a chair. She moves the table a bit, and one of Theon's shot glasses tips. He doesn't seem to notice, thank the gods, because he'd surely rip her a new one.

She manages between laughs, "Oh but it is, man. So, so funny. You tripped on a tree stump."

Robb scowls, and sits on the couch heavily, jostling Sansa, who glares at him, shifting her laptop, the glint of her engagement ring flashing. "It is kind of funny."

Myrcella and Theon erupt into another fit of laughter.

* * *

**(388)**

"You've got to."

Myrcella chews on her lip, the wrist and ankle shackles in her hand suddenly too cold to hold. They clatter to the floor, and Robb winces, eyes shutting at the sound. Immediately she bends to pick them up, but he's there, taking her hands. She can feel the subtle shift of the bones in them, knows that the moon will rise in a few hours, and with it, Robb and Arya will shift, become wild, and Myrcella will sit at the house a mile away and drink with Gendry and ignore the howls that pierce the air. Or, that's what they'd planned to.

"I don't think you'll hurt me," Myrcella whispers, gripping two of his fingers. His other hand rises and rests against her cheek, petting the scar. "I know you won't. The other wolf said you need an anchor, right-?"

"I'm not chancing it, Cella," he tells her, grabbing the shackles before she can snatch them away and snapping them to his ankles. He winces, and she knows they're tight. "You have your gun. If anything happens…put a silver bullet in my heart."

She's furious then, grabbing the shackles from him and snapping them over his wrists, one by one, shoving him back against the stone wall. The Starks are lucky they have a cellar like this, used for their wolves years and years ago. Now they'll be used for wolves once more. "I'll be staying on the other side of this door," she tells him, eyes ablaze. Her fingers itch to curl and swing, sock him in the face because he _deserves it,_ but she steps away from him instead, backing toward the door.

When the moon rises, hours later, high in the sky, casting shadows in the small hall outside the iron doors, Myrcella sits with her back against the wall, legs outstretched and toes barely touching the door to Robb's cell. They haven't spoken at all since she'd come out here, but now she can hear him shifting around, shackles dragging across the floor. Animalistic sounds tear from his throat.

"Myrcella, _go!"_

She grits her teeth and her fingers tighten on her gun. "Shut up, Robb. I'm fine. There's a wall of iron between us."

"I-" he's cut off, and something snaps, a low snarl making its way under the door. "Keep talking. Talk to me. It's...it helps a bit."

So she talks.

* * *

**(291)**

She sees the stag seconds before it hits the truck, it's large body breaking the windshield, antlers cracking and breaking off, and then Robb is swerving, swearing, one arm out. He's mom arming her, she realizes, watching as the truck tips, and really, she should have worn a seatbelt.

The last thing she sees before she blacks out is blood on the windshield.

* * *

The first time she wakes up, Myrcella is hit with a blind panic, and the dark room she's in does nothing to help. There is something in her nose and someone is asking her to calm down, to relax, but she can't, doesn't know how to or what's going on.

She opens her mouth to scream, but the pain is so intense, blooming so fiercely that her eyes water and she sees black, and then everything is gone once more.

* * *

They say it was from going through the windshield when the truck went into the ditch. It's what happens when you don't wear your seatbelt, they tell her with a frown and a pitying look, and Robb stays in the corner of the room, staring at her with hard eyes and a tense jaw.

When the doctors leave for the night, nurses coming in every few hours to check her blood and pulse, Robb pulls his chair up to the edge of the bed and stares. It's incredibly unnerving, but it hurts far too much to speak, hell, it hurts to even open her mouth, and she tries but fails to not tongue the cut inside her cheek.

Myrcella cries more than she had when Tommen died when she sees the scar, the ugly thing across her face, all purple and yellow bruising, and bright red splotches. She hates herself for it, because Tommen dying was one of the hardest things she's ever had to go through, and now she's crying because she's ugly.

(She doesn't think of the irony of the stag hitting them, the symbol of her father's family crest.)

* * *

**(495)**

Ned cries day in and day out and Myrcella can't _sleep._ Even when Robb goes in, cradling and rocking their son back to sleep, she can't get comfortable or warm enough or he just doesn't stop crying and then she has to get out of bed and rock him 'til he's asleep, and even then, putting him back in the crib is risky because he wakes so _easily._

She's irritable during the day and even more so at night, but when that demon set foot in _her_ house, staring down at the crib, all the irritation she feels at her child waking her through the night is gone and replaced with fury, the kind she knows her mother had and her father, too, and the knife in her hand, sliding through the fragile flesh of the demon's host, feels so good.

* * *

**(159)**

It's one of those special occasions where hunters get married and nothing horrible happens.

Myrcella is sitting at one of the tables, watching as Robb and Sansa dance together. They looks beautiful, dancing like that. All reds and whites and pale, pale skin, and Myrcella would be jealous, but she doesn't love Robb Stark, or anything stupid like that, so she isn't.

Theon drops down beside her, already buzzed, and there is a bright mark on his neck. Myrcella smirks, and tosses back the shot he's brought her. "Nice night, Greyjoy?"

"Nicer than yours. Seriously, Cella, get off your ass and ask him to dance. Or just, y'know, sit here and mope. Your choice, really, but I bet if you bat your eyelashes enough, you'll get a good fuck."

She scowls at him, and tugs at the skirt of her dress. The only bad thing about this is dressing up. The only dress she had in the closet was the one she wore to Tommen's funeral (or, what she wore when they salt and burned his body) and she had to go out and buy a new one. "Shut your mouth, Theon, before I shut it for you."

He snorts, and then they settle into comfortable silence.

It's easier being around Theon sometimes, especially now that she's taken to traveling with him and Robb and Jon more often than not. He's a lot like her, more so than Robb or Jon. He's rude and arrogant and he doesn't care about hurting her feelings, which she likes, sometimes. After finding out about her true parentage, about her Uncle Jamie, she was afraid people would act strange around her, and they did, but not Theon.

A song begins playing, a new one, and Robb hands Sansa back to Willas with a smile.

Myrcella recognizes the song, something about Friday and love, but she can't focus on the lyrics of the song because _Robb is walking toward her_ with a grim fucking look on his face, like maybe she just killed his sister or something. Oh, bad thought.

"Myrcella," he says when he stops in front of her. He sounds…formal, almost, and she doesn't blush.

"Robb," she mocks, plastering a smirk on her face. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He holds out a hand, but looks a bit wary. "Dance with me?"

She's still not blushing when she says yes, and her heart is absolutely _not_ pounding when Theon laughs, loud and boisterous.

Robb's hand is a heavy but familiar weight on her hip, tugging her close, but not indecently close, and the song plays in the background, "_I don't care if Monday's blue, Tuesday's gray and Wednesday too, Thursday I don't care about you, It's Friday, I'm in love"_, and Robb smiles, soft and warm.

* * *

**(500)**

The feeling of a knife in her hand is a familiar one, and she twirls it between her fingers. It's the first hunt she's been on in a while, and already she's missing Ned, though she's trying not to let it show too much. Robb stares at her from the other end of the table, not reading the police report like he should be. "What?" She asks, knife stilling between her fingers.

"This is the first time we've been alone in a while. Without Ned, I mean," he tells her, and yes, correct, good on you for noticing, Robb, she wants to say, but she keeps her mouth shut. Myrcella is sure she knows where this is going.

"And?"

He stands and begins to walk around the table toward her, the corners of his mouth twitching upward, "Well, I figure we could…do something fun. And this time we won't be interrupted."

He's in front of her now, pressing her close to the chair she's in, one knee between her legs, and yes, what a perfect idea.

Myrcella tugs him down, mouth meetings his.

* * *

**please review!**


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